Laurel took one last look around and nodded. In just the short time they spent there, she had found peace. It was as if her problems were now manageable. She now believed that she would be able to find and notify her grandfather without letting Douglass know.
“Thank you, Conor, for taking me here,” she whispered as he took hold her hand to guide her as they descended. “It was just what I needed.”
When they had returned to the edge of woods right before the clearing, she could hear the clashing of swords and several men fighting.
“What is happening?” Laurel murmured, then cried, “Conor! They are fighting! Someone has attacked the campsite. We must help them!” Visions of Ainsley’s men being slaughtered a few days ago suddenly filled her mind.
“Help them? They are just having a wee scrap to freshen their skills a bit. It is harmless.”
She whirled to face Conor. “Harmless?” Laurel’s chin came up angrily, her sea green eyes sparkling with rage. “Men fighting with swords is fun and harmless?”
When he just stared blankly at her, she raised her voice and said, “Fine. Someone has to stop them and I guess that leaves me.”
She collided with Conor when he stepped into her path.
“And what, love, do you think you are going to do?”
Laurel closed her eyes in brief, heated frustration. “Conor, you are being exasperating again. Having to repeat myself for you is most annoying,” she said, her voice dangerously sweet.
He continued to stand in her way. It was obvious that he was not going to budge or let her pass. So, she tried again.
“I was just going to ask them to stop. And if that didn’t work, I would use stronger encouragement,” she answered, now through gritted teeth.
Laurel was beginning to show her temper, and his rumbles of laughter were making it rise all the more. She reached into her dress and pulled out the pearl dagger she had taken when she had fled the Douglass castle.
When Conor saw the small knife she held in her hand, he could hold onto his laughter no more. His amusement at her toy was so loud that it interrupted the sword practice his brothers were having with his guard.
By the time his brothers had come to investigate Conor’s merry roar, their laird was grinning wildly. This sight in itself was enough to astonish every last one of them. For it was a rare thing for Laird McTiernay to smile, let alone laugh—and loudly. Added to their shock was the change in Laurel. She looked furious.
Her eyes were blazing and, if hostile glares could cause bodily injury, Conor would be permanently disfigured. The lass really did please him, Conor thought. He couldn’t wait until he got her home.
But just as the idea of home and Laurel in his castle and bed were taking shape, Laurel snapped. Before he knew to react, she had changed the grip on her dirk and taken the knife from his belt. She swiveled so fast that later, all present would say she was just a blur when she aimed and threw.
First, Laurel launched her dagger. Sure and swift, it hit one of the guard’s leather sporrans hanging in the trees. With the other arm, she threw Conor’s knife. The accuracy was a little off due to the unexpected weight of the hilt, but it still hit the intended log of wood next to Conor’s plaid on the ground at least thirty feet away.
The immediate quiet that fell upon the group was palpable. Everyone just kept shifting their stares from her to the blades she had wielded with such precision. Laurel knew she should be ashamed of letting her temper goad her into silencing Conor’s guffaws. Still, she couldn’t do it. Moreover, she couldn’t let well enough alone.
“I told you that I could take care of myself,” she spoke in a completely unrepentant voice.
“Woman, how did you do that?” asked Loman.
Instantly, Conor’s anger flared. He shifted his gaze for one moment to Loman and corrected him. “She is ‘my lady’ to you, Loman,” he stated in a cold tone so that none questioned his meaning.
“Conor, do not use that voice with Loman. He was just asking me a question. There is no need to take your anger with me out on him,” Laurel said, trying to redirect his anger towards its intended target.
Conor was not calmed. “I will say what I like, when I like, and how I like to him and to whomever else I choose. I am their laird,” he roared back, this time with no cheer at all. He glared at Loman until he finally nodded in acknowledgment.
Laurel watched him overawe his guardsman and refused to follow Loman’s example. “Well, you may be their laird, Conor McTiernay, but you sure as hell are not mine. Remember earlier? I thought you said I was not to call you laird. I could only call you Conor,” she shouted back.
“Watch your cursing, love, or are you not a lady?” he bellowed in return, thinking that such a criticism would surely hit its mark and force her to withdraw from the argument. But his aim missed—completely. Retreat was not what she had in mind. Laurel went on the offensive.
“A lady? Well, I guess that is all how you define a lady, Conor.”
She turned and looked at the brothers, who were standing with dumbfounded looks on their faces. They had never seen anyone stand up to Conor this way before. Anyone. Most women cowered in his presence and if he even slightly raised his voice or looked crossly at one, they slunk away, whimpering from intimidation.
What was transpiring between Laurel and Conor was nothing short of miraculous. First he laughed, next she demonstrated that she could indeed handle herself, and then they both were shouting at each other.
Laurel began pacing. “In England, a lady is any female born to a noble house. The word refers to her title of nobility or of other rank. Some people refer to the woman of the household as lady, meaning they are wed to men who have great houses, but are without titles. Then, again, you may be referring to women who are regarded as proper and virtuous. But all ladies should be well-mannered, considerate and with high standards of proper behavior. I sense this is the point you were making. Am I correct, Conor?”
He just stared at her. She had stopped her angry strides and stood right in front of him, daring him to counter her remarks with a wintry smile.
“Hmm? Because in case you are in doubt, I am a lady by birth, but not by action. I hunt, I ride, and I get angry. And when I am angry, I curse. My father didn’t consider me a lady, and my brother sure as hell didn’t. The only person in my life who believed me a true noblewoman was my grandfather. It is a great shame that he is not here tonight to witness and support my ladylike behavior.”
Again the silence was deafening. And again she was its cause. Laurel knew she had gone too far. She had taunted Conor in front of his guard and brothers. Her father and brother were always mortified when she exhibited anything close to an emotional outburst. The tirade she just displayed would have resulted in immediate, probably indefinite confinement. What had come over her? She had always had a temper, but could control it. What was it about Conor that provoked her so? Why did she feel free to react so naturally around him?
Laurel knew that she should be ashamed at her behavior by the looks on everyone’s stunned faces. She was still in shock herself when Finn slapped her on the back, smiled, and said, “You’ll do, lass. Aye, you will do.”
Laurel could not mask her confusion. “I will do what?”
Finn’s grin grew so that it practically went ear to ear. “The highlands! We were afraid that you would wither away or shrink to nothing with the timid act you’ve been pulling the last couple of days. The only hope we had was seeing your courage and stamina to ride through your pain. But now, well, as I said, you’ll do,” Finn replied and the others around him grinned and nodded at the same time.
She stared at them dumbfounded. They were actually